Vladimir, Origins
by Naovan
Summary: Have you ever wondered how Vladimir became the Crimson Reaper? Rated M for explicit violence.


_Boredom. Nobility. Drawl. Polite. Facade._

It is all disgusting. These pompous Noxians proclaim strength, but are nothing more than descendants of heroes. Just the bloodline connects them. Not any virtue, not any feat, nothing beyond a mere relative.

And this is my life. I awake each day, 14 servants attend to me, in keeping my mansion kept, in greeting my guests, in preparing my food, in planning my time, in ensuring my nobility is taken note of, that I spend time with other _nobles._ The thought makes me want to spit in disgust. If I must spend another moment with them this week I might just end up killing someone. That would be a problem, unless I had some _motive_ to do so. In Noxus, callous murder is punished heavily, the "strong" will either see their own will done in the name of Noxus or they will submit. I have no intention of joining that murderous game, thus I must submit to custom and pleasantries.

The chiming of the grand clock strikes 4 times, signaling the end of my stay in the study.

The servant who was with me the entire time spoke up, "Master Vladimir, Count Durand will arrive within the half hour. Your meals are being prepared currently. Shall you dine in the parlor? Or would you prefer we ready the banquet hall?"

I remain seated in my chair, close my book and set it upon my desk. Without moving I look out the window over my vast gardens. The rose in particular my favorite flower, it combined with lavender held sweeping majesty, and the vast portion of my estate's decoration. The sun was only to be in the sky another 3 hours. It would be shining directly into the banquet hall, a grandiose presentation of the southern vista would be visible. The blueish tint of a cold sun shining over a rose and lavender field, framed by the yellow and green of birch trees and evergreens in the far background. I cannot resist it,

"Thomas, prepare the hall."

"At once."

He leaves me, and I succumb to my habit of nervously putting my thumbnail between my teeth. Within a few minutes he returns.

"Master Vladimir, I have done as you requested. The banquet hall's main table will be set for 2, the drapery has been pulled back to the full extent, a fresh vase with 4 roses and a stem of lavender will be placed in the center. The meal prepared should suffice both your taste and Count Durand's. It is bald onion soup, followed by Ionian white vine wine, a light berry and cheese salad with mustard grilled salmon finished by a serving of chocolate mousse. After you have retired to the living room a tray of truffles with cinnamon and nutmeg coffee will be brought in. There will be a bottle of blackberry brandy already in the room."

I moved my hands down to the armrest and pushed myself up.

"I will be waiting in the drawing room, inform me once Durand has arrived."

I walked down the left white marble staircase, and went into the drawing room. I was impressed by the beauty of my estate each time I passed by the double front doors. Two marble staircases flanked the open waiting area with my favorite decorational flowers on a single mahogany table. Immediately beyond the waiting area was the drawing room. I decided to sit upon one of the couches and begin reading some of the more recent expedition notes into the Kumungu jungle. The beasts and jungle virus kept expeditions relatively shallow, deforestation efforts were underway to pave a path for deeper investigation. At least now I have something to talk about if Durand doesn't.

"Master Vladimir. Count Durand has arrived, his carriage will be dropping him off shortly."

"Very well."

I went out to greet the Count, and after an exchange of pleasantries we moved into the hall for our meal.

"Marquis Vladimir, I must commend you for building such an impressive view!"

It always begins like this. First they flatter my estate, then me, and finally they make a request. Each noble the same as the last, stuck in a mold of history and tradition. Imploring the aid of a higher ranked individual for this or that. Frivolous. Petty. Almost insulting.

"Count Durand, tell me, why have you come?" I expose the edge of my voice slightly, but enough to notice.

"Marquis! It would be improper for me to request anything of you whilst we still dine, let the matter rest awhile I ask of you."

I tap the table impatiently with my index finger while I exhale, "Of course." Pointless to attempt to speed him along I suppose.

After we had consumed the soup the Ionian wine was brought out. I myself was in no mood for such a light alcoholic beverage, but it was apparently a favorite of the Count.

"Ionian white vine? Marquis you pleasure me too much!"

I stare dully out at the world, this strains upon me greatly. Perhaps I can take a trip to visit somewhere less boring. Even Kumungu perhaps, there would be no nobles to bother me, and the element of risk would keep me excited. I'm brought back to reality by a clamor. Count Durand has fallen out of his chair and is coughing up blood, the 2 servants in the room rush to his side and 1 leaves, no doubt for a healer. I move over to him as well.

"Marquis?" He says weakly, "It seems I was right. A threat from across our southern border."

His pulse is weak, and his breathing shallow. He was poisoned, but it could not have been by my servants.

"Arrest Durand's servants, and examine the estate for any signs of an intruder."

He looks into my eyes, his own lights dimming, "Mar….quis" I feel a shudder and he heaves out a puddle of blood. Smooth liquid, enchanting, I can see something in his blood.

"The healer! Where is the healer?!" This will certainly be a bothersome affair if he dies.

One of the two servants at my side rushes off after the first. Yet I'm left in complete shock. Another minute passes, two minutes pass. Where is the healer? I blink my eyes back into the scene before me. Durand has somehow managed to bleed even more, a full quarter of the hall is covered. I stand up, moving towards the living room. That bottle is my sanity on a regular day, and now this. I will need to sort this out if I am to remain the Marquis.

 _Duty._

Why do I even bother? I tire of this game! As I leave the hall, I see the healer enter. Finally he has arrived. What took him so long! But I doubt it matters, two minutes ago Durand was a dead man anyways.

I sit in my favorite chair, open the brandy, and drink straight from the bottle. The heat at the back of my throat grows and I pause to take a breath; the bottle has been significantly drained. I had hoped not to need a new bottle until next week, but I wasn't going to stop drinking. The flavor is my only focus in this moment, the alcohol will take its effect soon enough. I roll my head back and let the fire fill my veins, my eyes go dim and I let myself drift away.

I'm awoken almost immediately, I can tell because I'm not very drunk. The healer entered the room quite clumsily and fell over. He stands up and looks at me, but it is not a face I recognize. I instantly put the pieces together, the healer was replaced by an assassin! I stand up and reach for the closest weapon I can find: a fireplace poker. I hold it out at arms length and move towards him. I have only taken swordplay instruction as a mere formality of Noxian custom. I hardly believe in my skill, but I will not die like a dog. As I approach I notice he is covered in blood spatter, but only looks as if he was stabbed once. He has likely killed everyone in his way, my household in ruin.

"Thomas, have you killed Thomas?" I ask while moving to a better spot to attack him.

His eyes glint with fierce murder as he dips under his cloak, and flourishes a blade at me. Maybe a forearms length dagger, with little ornamentation. He lunges at me and I parry. I recognize how woefully outmatched I am as he lazily counters my parry and slices along my arm, cutting my weapon free and exposing flesh down to the bone.

I'm in shock, I'm bleeding out, I can't breathe, and the assassin before me stumbles before approaching again.

"Pathetic." He curses at me with a breathless and hollow voice.

He raises his weapon and moves to bring it down upon me. I raise my other arm to block the blow. The dagger cuts deep, showering me in a spray of blood as one of my arteries is violently severed.

I have to run, I have to run, I have to run. Before I realize it I am in the hall, I slipped on something. The puddle of blood! Except it is no puddle and there are bodies beyond my ability to count. Ironic, I bleed out while drowning in blood. The assassin has followed me, and is only a few feet behind me now. I roll onto my back and raise what is left of my arms to defend me. A coat of thick blood covers my arms, but this time he strikes with a single puncture directly thru my heart. My life bubbles and spurts out of my chest, one beat at a time. I feel it now, I will be dead shortly. I give up the struggle and let my arms fall slack. I have failed as a Marquis, I have failed as a Noxian. The irony of wanting to leave the life of nobility for one of excitement now dawns on me, perhaps I should have settled with being a count. I would still be alive, and some other Marquis would have failed to protect the border.

The alcohol must be taking effect because I could no longer feel the pain in my arms and chest. I craned my neck to see the sunset, as perfect as I had imagined it to be. I wish one last time to see the rose and lavender, and roll myself towards a window. I have barely enough strength to lift myself onto a chair and look out. I slip down, satisfied with my final effort. I calm my breathing and wait for myself to slide away, like I always do after a good afternoon's brandy.

I hear the assassin coming back, I must not be dying quick enough.

"Sorcery…" I hear him whisper. "Sorcery!" He repeats loudly; he must have companions who are skilled in magicks. I open my eyes and see his blade, red to the hilt. Then look down at myself. The hole in my chest no longer bleeds, and my arms have no signs of ever being cut. I stand up and he moves away, but as soon as my eyes leave him I am stabbed again. Searing pain and agony traverses my body as I fall down into the pool of blood once more. I take a breath, and inspiration comes to me. I will not die as long as there is blood to pump thru my being, whether mine or another's it does not matter.

I focus on the wound in his shoulder, a single stab by a kitchen knife, and for the first time in my life attempt to perform magick. The most basic of spells, movement. I stand up and command the blood seeping from his body to come to me. His wound re opens, and the dagger puncturing my chest feels as if nothing is there. The blood from his clothing fills up the hole created when the dagger is removed. Again he stabs, and again I transfuse his seeping blood into my own body. Four times, five times, then it is over. He stabs no more. His dagger drops from an emaciated hand, clean clothing with not a spot of crimson on it. The corpse drops, onto a clean marble floor. I look around and realize that all the bodies here are thin and pale. I have taken the blood from each of them, and it hovers in front of me like an orb.

Another ten or so men come rushing into the hall. Not mine, nor Durand's. The assassin did have help after all. I pressurize the sphere of blood I hold then release it, opening my wounds in the process. The hall becomes painted in crimson, and 10 new bodies have wounds from which I drain their living being. No shouts, but the sound of 10 soldiers dropping simultaneously. Each one emaciated, drained of everything. The blood in the drapes, on the marble, staining the table; it all comes to me.

I am become death, the reaper of men.

The _Crimson Reaper._


End file.
